


The Picture of Us

by kin_kun



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Actors, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 03:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kin_kun/pseuds/kin_kun
Summary: “Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.—Before Yuri left, he had loved Otabek, but Otabek had loved him more than anything. While working on “Dorian”, written by the Kazakh and directed by Viktor Nikiforov, they shall meet again and understand that their hearts are not all that different from their characters’.





	The Picture of Us

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is probably not a good idea since I’ll be working on three different stories at once, but this one goes to my! old! abandonment! issues! and always-using-Beka-for-catharsis 🥂
> 
> Chapters will be short for this one, but I hope you’ll enjoy it 🖤

* * *

Yuri left on a night when the wind smelled like deception. The breeze that promised relief was colder than the river water during the winter. Otabek’s lips burned. His every ligament stiffened, begged to be covered up, protected from the chills of December in Vancouver. _ “I care about you, Beka. So fucking much”, _ he’d said, as he professed the speech that crushed the Kazakh’s heart like a hammer, scattering the particles of ice in a way they would never be brought together fast enough to not melt apart. _ “I know I’ll never meet anyone like you, not even close, but I can’t have this right now—“ _

“‘It’s too heavy’”, Beka repeated the words to himself as his boots sunk in the snow with each step. 

How long had it been since then? Three years? It felt like an eternity. It was Christmas Eve. Otabek had procrastinated gift-shopping for too long again - new headphones for De La Iglesia, _ The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle _by Haruki Murakami for Katsuki, an electric water bottle for Viktor, Spider-Man action figure for Phichit and some shaving kit for Chris because, honestly, Beka didn’t know him well enough to buy a thoughtful gift.

Even though he’d been in a hurry, 

Even though it had been years,

Even though he didn’t know who Yura was anymore, Otabek never forgot his birthday on the first of March or the day they used to celebrate their friendship anniversary when they were younger, on the eighteenth of September, or that, on Christmas Eve, Yura used to sigh a lot. He said he didn’t like it; that his family, that he had left in Russia, didn’t get along, but used to get together anyway, which only ended up in needless fighting. Yura sighed because he had gotten away. Beka remembered him, all wrapped up in a thick gray scarf, laughing and cursing at the black beanie he always wore because it had been swept off his head for the third time since he had gotten on the swing. He still recalled accurately the sound of Yuri’s laugh, but it was far away. When he tried to hear it again, it was as though Yura were across the street and Otabek turned his head hastily, watching his blonde hair sway away while on the phone with someone from his new life that the Kazakh wasn’t a part of. Then, he disappeared into the night once more, along with the sound of his laugh, his unforgettable green eyes, his voice that could calm a thousand oceans, the hug of a friend, the warmth of a home, the clarity of the future—

He carried Otabek’s very soul away.

For the sixth year in a row, the Kazakh stopped at Emery Barnes park on the way home. Except, for the third year in a row, he looked at the swings the way that he looked at himself— a place Yura had abandoned. _ No_, Otabek had grown out of that thought, he realized, as it made his stomach swirl. It just looked lonely, it was all. It was cold and the only one who would ever laugh there this time of year was gone. Beka looked at the swings the way that he looked at himself: He was cold and the only one who would ever laugh with him when he was at his coldest was… gone. 

_ I don’t blame you anymore. I wish I could tell you. _

* * *

Otabek still felt a bit uneasy walking into Viktor Nikiforov’s house. Beka had been working for him for a couple of years now, after the Russian man had taught a special program at Vancouver Film School, where Otabek used to attend. The Kazakh had finished four different programs at the school: Film Production, Writing for Film and Television, Sound and Digital Design, which was a perfect example of how all-over-the-place he was. “A jack-of-all-trades and a master of none”, as he usually described himself. As messy as his skills were, Beka had been lucky to meet Viktor when he presented a special course for young directors, “Directing from the Actor’s Perspective”— Otabek would never forget. Nikiforov used to be a Broadway child star, a prodigy on stages, living in New York until accepting his first TV role on The CW and moving to Canada. “Fine Line” was on its sixth season and his performance as Dmitri Snowden, a detective with a rather controversial past and moral code, had been awarded since the first one. He was a splendid actor, singer, dancer and, soon, director. _ A master of all trades. _

Obviously, Otabek’s skills as a nineteen-year-old weren’t really what had caught the Russian man’s eye. At the time of the course, Viktor had been looking for an actor - not a famous one, he wanted to introduce him to the public - who played the piano and had the ability to look innocent and fragile, with a wide enough range to reach peaks of expression. It was for one of his festival-only indie films that he took part in between seasons, but the casting directors were having a tough time finding an actor who filled all requirements and had believable chemistry with the Russian lead. Then, Otabek remembered watching a small theater production of Tokyo Sonata and being blown away by the performance of the actor who played Kenji, Yuuri Katsuki. Beka had never seen the man in big productions, but he was a regular at the Vancouver Theatre. After the last class, Otabek, however shyly, walked up to Viktor Nikiforov and told him his second lead might be in the cast of _ Chimerica _ at the Jericho Arts Centre that night. 

It went without saying that Viktor had fallen in love with Yuuri - quite literally - and they had gone to play two competitors, one who had never found his sound and one who had lost it, who fell for each other. Otabek was invited to the first screening and the Russian man offered him a job as a casting director, said that he “_knew special people when he saw them”_. Sometimes, Otabek thought it’d been only out of gratitude for linking the couple together. Still, he was young and lost, trying everything, so Beka had taken the opportunity and been working with him ever since. 

It was a relief to go inside, take most of the layers of clothing off. The guests received him with warm smiles; it was Christmas, after all. Yuuri was very family-oriented and Viktor had refined tastes, which resulted in gorgeous decoration, a _ feast _and good music. However, they had been green-lighted a TV pilot and, no matter how festive, all they could talk about was work. 

“They have faith in us. Usually the budget for a pilot is a third of what they offered.” Viktor said, swirling his champagne glass elegantly. 

“They have faith in _ you_, my darling.” Chris corrected in his usual flirtatious tone. “The people will want to see your directing debut. If you take on a minor role, only for them to get their fix of your pretty blue eyes, even better.”

The Russian man huffed and shook his head slightly, throwing an arm around his Japanese boyfriend’s shoulder on the couch. “Sorry, my friend, but I’m going to sit this one out.” He winked. “On the _ director’s _ chair.”

“I’ll support him whatever he does, but I also find it a pity that he won’t act.” Katsuki commented as if the subject wasn’t even there. “Vitya’s played Dorian before.”

“When I was twenty-one, my love.”

“You’re still as handsome as can be—!“

Katsuki stopped midway through his exclamation, flushed to his ears. He was too weak to alcohol. Soft laughter echoed around the room. It was pleasant. Things were looking up. That would also be Otabek’s debut as a writer, since the script for a modern version of _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _had been one of his assignments at film school— well, he had chosen which classic to adapt and he had loved the book since high school. It‘d seemed like a relevant topic in modern society: vanity. 

“We’re gonna have to freaking nail on the lead, then.” Leo de la Iglesia said, sitting on the floor, eating home-made cookies off a tray on the coffee table. He looked four, but he was a year older than the Kazakh and a former colleague from VFS. A master of Sound Design. 

Viktor sighed. “That’s gonna take a while.” He tilted his head to rest his cheek on Yuuri’s hair. “I’m hoping we can start looking in January.”

“Open auditions?” Chris asked.

“Yes, and let’s have them read for Dorian from the get-go. It’ll make them puff their chest right away.”

“Who’s casting?” Otabek joined the conversation.

Viktor smirked at him. “Interested?”

Beka felt himself grin. The Russian man cocked his head back, laughing. “You know, I waited two years for you to finish school so that I could promote you and you’re volunteering to keep watching audition tapes.”

The Kazakh shrugged and took another sip of champagne. “A jack-of-all-trades…” _ And a master of none. _

“Ooh, Beks is going to play match-maker again!” Phichit sang on his way back from the bathroom. 

Leo crawled around the coffee table to practically plead on his knees. “Please, Beks, find someone for you this time, please~” He breathed out “You moping around is so depressing, I mean, look at you, you’re good at everything—“

Beka lifted an eyebrow. “Mediocre at everything.”

“I disagree.” Viktor commented.

“Whatever, you don’t suck. You deserve somebody.” Leo insisted. 

It was pleasant. Things were looking up. It was Christmas, after all. But, every time, no matter how much time passed, that “somebody” for Otabek, the face that flashed before his eyes, remained the same. Why, even though he knew Yura didn’t care, just why… Why did he still long for him so much? So much nobody else mattered. 

_ “Look at me!” Yuri cupped the Kazakh’s cheeks with a slap, a crease between his light brows. “You’re a fucking winner. I’m gonna fucking watch you become a legend.” _

“What I need is to work my ass off.” Otabek replied, rehearsing a smirk. “Didn’t you hear? I recently got promoted.”

* * *

_ “Some things are more precious because they don't last long.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! See you soon 🖤
> 
> **Other works**: [Waste of Paint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771681/chapters/46378246) (Otayuri - Art School AU - Completed)
> 
> [SOLOVEY](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997335/chapters/47347285) (Otayuri - Rock Band AU - On-going)


End file.
